When Richard Cory went to town
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich--yes, richer than a king--
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
"In behint yon auld dail dike,
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
"Many a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."
A noiseless patient spider,
I marked where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these things will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you: (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
You are younger than I am, you are
someone I never knew, you stand
under a tree, your face half-shadowed,
holding the horse by its bridle
Why do you smile? Can't you
see the apple blossoms falling around
you, snow, sun, snow, listen, the three
dries and is being burnt, the wind
is bending, your body, your face
ripples like the water where did you go
But no, you stand there exactly
the same, you can't hear me forty
years ago you were caught by light
and fixed in that secret
place where we live, where we believe
nothing can change, grow older.
(On the other side
of the picture, the instant
us over, the shadow
of the tree has moved. You wave
they turn and ride
out of sight through the vanished
orchard, still smiling
as though you did not notice)
My dog lay dead five days without a grave
In the thick of summer, hid in a clump of pine
And a jungle of grass and honeysuckle vine.
I who had loved him while he kept alive
Went only close enohgh to where he was
To sniff the heavy honeysuckle-smell
Twined with another odor heavier still
And the flies' intolerable buzz.
Well, I was ten and very much afraid.
In my kind of world the dead were out of range
And I could not forgive the sad or strange
In beast or man. My father took the spade
And buried him. Last night I was the grass
Slowly divide (it was the same scene
But not it glowed a fierce and mortal green)
And saw the dog emerging. I confess
I felt afraid again, but still he came
In the carnal sun, clothed in a hymn of flies,
And death was breeding lively in his eyes.
I started in to cry and call his name,
Asking forgiveness of his tongueless head.
...I dreamt the past never past redeeming:
But whether this was false or honest dreaming
I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead.
When I heard the learned astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I was sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wandered off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Looked up in perfect silence at the stars.
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must someday die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up the neverending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What aweful brain compels His aweful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
i am a little church (no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
--i do not worry if briefer days grow brriefest
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april
my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
i am little church (far from the frantic
winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to
Listen here, Joe
Listen here, kid,
Don't ask me why.
Mama, don't cry.
They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.
Two who are Mostly Good.
And remembering...
O our Father the sky, hear us and make us strong.
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Whatever ultimate meaning
Updated July 11, 2002.
my prayers are prayers of earth's clumsy striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying) children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope, and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains
world with its rapture and anguish) at peace with nature
--i do not worry if longer nights grow llongest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)
Without Benefit of Declaration
by Langston Hughes
Don't you know
That tomorrow
You got to go
Out yonder where
The steel winds blow?
It's been said
Tomorrow you'll be dead
Out there where
The snow is lead.
Just go ahead and die.
Hidden from the sky
Out yonder you'll lie:
A medal to your family--
In exchange for
A guy.
The Bean Eaters
by Gwendolyn Brooks
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,
Tin flatware.
Tho who have lived their day,
But keeping putting on their clothes
And putting things away.
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases, and fringes.
Lakota Sioux Prayer
anonymous
O our Mother the Earth, hear us and give us support.
O Spirit of the East, send us your wisdom.
O Spirit of the South, may we tread your path of life.
O Spirit of the West, may we always be ready for the long journey.
Mother to Son
by Lanston Hughes
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks on it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor--
Bare.
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn your back,
Don't you set down on the steps
"Cause you find it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now--
For I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
A Call to Share
by Robert O. Johann
life may have
this much can be said already--
life is a call to share
in the world's making.
It is a chance to intervene,
to contribute,
to enchance what exists
by the sheer power
of one's own presence
and activity.
One cannot be good
simply by avoiding evil.
To be indifferent or apathetic
to the needs of one's neighbor,
to stand aloof from a world
begging for help.
is already to be guilty.
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